Masquerade

19

He was in college. If anyone had told him then that one day he would become a Trappist monk, he would have laughed himself silly.

His name was Harold May. He was the son of a career Army man, so his family had lived in many, many places, on military bases throughout the United States and many other countries. So far, it had been an interesting life, filled with excitement and adventure.

As he grew up, he watched his father climb the military ladder and he listened as his father explained to his mother, and sometimes to him privately, the carefully made plans for advancement.

Harold admired his father and was terribly proud of his accomplishments. Harold loved the dress uniforms, the decorations, each more splendid than the previous with each new promotion. Harold was determined to follow in his father’s footsteps. But not in the military. It would be a major disappointment to the father, but the son wanted wider horizons than the military could offer.

And that was why Harold May was at UCLA, achieving. He was heavily into various Liberal Arts courses, with great emphasis on Journalism and English. His goal was advertising, but not the bottom nor even the comfortable middle rungs of the business. He knew where he wanted to go and he knew what it would take.

He also knew enough not to waste time in pursuits that would prove to be dead ends. Thus, slight of build and not particularly well coordinated, he participated in no organized sports. Oh, he fooled a bit with pick-up games of Softball and touch football. But his interest in these was no more than social and, worse than being no good at them, he was likely to be injured playing them. He found he could socialize as well or better on the sidelines. For recreation, wisely, he walked, often, far, and rapidly.

There was no way he could know it then, but this era during which he was attending college would later be known as “The Golden Age of Television.” And he happened to be where the action was.

Harold was among the first to realize what television would mean to the advertising world. That TV would turn the ad business upside down and inside out.

A very quick study, he required minimum time hitting the books. He also cut as many classes as he could get away with. A good part of the time he appropriated from studies he spent at the TV studios doing anything and everything he could on the technical side of the lights. So many of the young people who worked with him planned careers in television, but not in the coolie labor demanded of them now. They were going to be dramatic or comedy stars or directors or producers, or in charge of one or another of the technical facets of the business. One day they’d have a shelf full of Emmys. Or so they dreamed. Actually, few of them would achieve any measure of success in an industry where many were called but few chosen.

Harold, on the other hand, was utterly uninterested in television as such. Although the term “commercial television” was not yet prevalent, that was precisely the designation he foresaw. In this, he was prescient.

Until the fifties, advertising was pretty well confined to the print medium: newspapers, magazines, fliers, unless one wished to count movie previews, which, then as now, were teasers luring moviegoers to a forthcoming film. And if one wished to count coming attractions as ads, they were ads created by the film industry.

Hollywood, for all practical purposes, had cornered the market in film-making. That industry knew how to make moving pictures for the big screen, It was a short step from that science to making moving pictures for a little screen. Hollywood had the skills and techniques to blend moving pictures and sound, even animation. And New York’s ad community did not. At least not in the beginning.

And there lay Harold’s genius. He knew that the two-movies and advertising-were destined to meet. Indeed, at that moment they were on a collision course. The ad community was about to be caught in an embarrassment of ignorance. Not only did they not understand the techniques of film-making, they did not even know the jargon.

That was why young Harold May spent every possible spare moment on, in, and around the sound stages of Hollywood. He fully intended to combine all that he was learning behind the camera, in the cutting rooms, in the production offices, with his university courses.

Even with this single-minded dedication to his chosen career, Harold managed to squeeze in a not inconsiderable social life. And this brought to light another of Harold’s talents that surprised him, and amazed many of his friends.

Harold could drink.

Harold could not only drink prodigious amounts of alcohol, he had an astounding ability to hold it and not become intoxicated while all about him were drinking far less yet getting falling-down drunk.

This talent did not go uncelebrated. Several of his friends, both intimate and casual, were heard to say in one way or another, “God, I wish I could drink like Harold!”

Decades before safety experts urged groups of drinkers out for a night on the town to designate a nondrinking driver, Harold was the designated drinking driver.

Actually, he was not only proud of this talent, he was even grateful to God for it. Naturally, he had heard those stories of three-martini lunches for which ad people were notorious. He knew it was no mean trick to float through liquid lunches, be a hail-fellow-well-met, and still conduct business soberly.

It was not unlike a man with a mesomorphic body excelling at a sport such as football. God had gifted such a person with an unlikely body, steroid-free, and the athlete made good use of his gift. So it was with Harold. He believed that, for His own good reasons, God had granted unto him all those special gifts that were aiding him in the preparation for a life of upward mobility in the advertising business. But was it God doing all this? In the end, that was anyone’s guess. However, Harold was a very religious young man. His mother, as often as possible, attended daily Mass. His father, and commandant, enrolled him in parochial school-or, if there were no Catholic school on the base, catechism classes.

As is often the case in such circumstances, little Harold kept learning the same religious lessons over and over. His formation in morality was shallow but absorbed. Hopscotching from one military base to another, he had the opportunity to meet a vast mix of people his own age, but not necessarily of his religious persuasion. It was a practical if raw course in comparative religion. From conversations and discussions, he learned that many Protestants believed drinking and gambling were immoral. While Catholics were more cautious: There was nothing wrong with drinking as long as one did not become theologically drunk, which happened when one’s face hit the floor. Likewise with wagering: Nothing wrong with that as long as one did not lose the farm. All was well unless one indulged excessively. Moderation, in all things moderation.

Except with regard to sex. His Protestant buddies were not nearly as restricted in sexual matters as Harold.

Harold was taught that sexual expression had two purposes. The primary purpose was the procreation and education of children. The secondary purpose was the legitimate relief of concupiscence. He learned that at least once every year. That old devil concupiscence! He didn’t even know what concupiscence was until about his eighth or ninth year-which was when he learned about the purposes of sex.

So there the matter stood. Catholics, especially, it was believed, if they were Irish, drank like camels. They also bet on each pitch in a baseball game. Protestants couldn’t wear makeup, play cards, or have more than a rare glass of wine at dinner. But they did fool around.

None of these religious differences seemed odd to Harold because he had been taught and did believe that the one, holy, Catholic and Apostolic Church was the one, true Church of Jesus Christ. And that pretty well put all the others in their place.

Oh, yes, Harold was religious. And as far as he was concerned, his life was in sync with God’s will. He would have done more wagering-perhaps a virtue rather than a vice-but that he had little scratch with which to place a decent bet. He dated, but he never went further than necking and petting-worth from five to ten “Our Fathers” and “Hail Marys,” depending on the confessor. Basically, God had given Harold all the tools he needed to score big in the advertising world, his chosen profession. And, as if he needed any further sign in that delicate arena of the multimartini lunch, he could hold his own and then some. Could anything God did be more a sign of Divine Providence!

Harold graduated.

He selected the William J. Doran Agency, one of New York’s largest, most innovative ad firms. For years, in his imagination, usually just before sleep at night, he had been drafting a clever query letter to go along with a catchy resume. He sent them to Robert L. Begin, creative supervisor at the Doran Agency.

The tactic worked. The letter and resume won Harold an interview luncheon with Begin.

They met at “21,” one of New York’s poshier restaurants. It was a pivotal luncheon that would determine, to a large extent, Harold’s professional future. Begin was relaxed about it. And why should he not be?

He was in the driver’s seat. It was Harold’s future that was at stake. And it was Begin’s prerogative to recommend the hiring or rejection of this young man.

The pressure was on Harold. He was on the spot. But no one would ever have known it. The way he saw it, this was the moment for which he’d been born. It was, as they used to say in the Crusades, God’s will.

After introductions, the two were seated at a preferred table near the rear of the dining area. The waiter acknowledged and deferred to Begin. Harold noticed.

To Harold, Begin seemed the embodiment of the company man: attired in a light gray suit-appropriate for a warm June day-he wore rimless glasses-bifocals-and expensive cuff links and a trendy wrist-watch. His thinning graying hair lent an aristocratic appearance.

The waiter took their orders. A Manhattan for Begin; a martini, up, for Harold.

Begin began to explain the make-up of the Doran Agency. Although Harold had researched it thoroughly, the novice listened with an absorbed expression.

There were, Begin spelled out, drawing barely perceptible lines on the tablecloth with the prongs of his fork, five departments in the company.

“The account management division,” Begin said, “provides liaison to the client with regard to current as well as new business. The creative department, which, I take it, is your primary interest, Harold-”

You betcha, thought Harold.

“. . the creative department contains both the art department and the copywriters. Then there’s the production department, the people who put the ad on the printed page. The media department decides where the ad will run: paper; magazines; which papers and when; which magazines. Finally, there’s the research department, which develops strategy for the target audience and tests the advertising concept.

“The important thing, Harold, is that all this describes the team effort that advertising very much is. To paraphrase, ‘No department is an island.’”

Begin was interrupted by the waiter inquiring whether they were ready to order. They were. Begin would have the catch of the day. Harold would have the Caesar salad and another martini, up. Begin took note.

Begin took Harold through much of the ad business history, then focused on the Doran Agency and its six prime accounts. Of course Harold knew who the accounts were, but, again, he didn’t interrupt.

They were: a major pharmaceutical company; a national brewery; a brand tobacco firm; a cosmetics business; an airline; and International Motors, presently striving to become one of the Big Four auto companies.

Begin noted the flicker of desire in Harold’s eyes at the mention of International Motors.

It was a subtle reaction, but Begin had trained himself to be alert to such small signs. He wondered if Harold May had a future with Doran. Judging from his credentials alone, probably yes. Then Begin wondered if Harold had a future in the International Motors account. Likely not for a long while. The level at which Harold would enter the company was light years away from such an important account.

By the time they had all but finished their lunch, Begin had just about completed his guided tour through advertising in general and Doran in particular. The waiter returned to ask if they wanted coffee. They did. And Harold ordered his third martini. Begin took note. Then he opened the conversation to Harold.

It was the moment for which Harold had patiently waited.

While not derogating from anything Begin had said, Harold launched into a flood of knowledge acquired over the years. When he felt that Begin was sufficiently impressed, Harold played trump: Los Angeles, Hollywood, television. “There’s always going to be a place for print advertising, of course, Mr. Begin. .”

“Bob, please.”

“Thank you. Bob. It’s just that, to be effective, print has to have longevity and consistency.”

“You’re right, Harold. And that’s the way we project at Doran. The client has to be sold on the woodpecker theory.”

“Woodpecker?” Harold didn’t think he’d missed a term, but this was unfamiliar.

“The woodpecker, hitting the same spot over and over again, just the same way!”

“Of course,” Harold agreed. “But something different happens when you get to TV advertising, don’t you think? I mean television imposes itself on its audience-where print gives you the option of looking or not looking.”

“Keen observation,” Begin commented. “But you mentioned Hollywood, television. I’d be interested in your views of TV as it relates to advertising.” He tried to affect a casual tone.

Harold caught Begin’s heightened interest. He was not surprised. He’d expected it.

“From what I’ve been able to put together,” Harold said, “effective TV advertising is going to have emotion, humor, and fancy production.”

“And print ads don’t?”

“Not really. The TV medium is, by its very nature, more flamboyant, more flashy than print. The emotion is right on the surface. It can fool with humor in a way that print can’t afford to. Pratfalls, clips of old Mac Sennett comedies, dancing cigarette packs, things like that. And when it comes to fancy production, the print medium simply can’t compete. You’re going from a single picture per page to production numbers staged maybe in Busby Berkeley style.”

Begin could not hide his excitement. He urged Harold to tell him all he knew about this monster that threatened to skyrocket the ad industry. While Harold still had much to learn, he was not the complete innocent when it came to hoarding bargaining chips.

So, in sketchiest detail, Harold told of his experience behind the camera, building sets, staging, cutting and editing film, even a bout or two in the director’s chair-albeit in extremely small productions. Nonetheless, the sum total of all this hands-on experience gave him a very distinct advantage over the garden-variety creative ad person. A conclusion with which Bob Begin concurred.

The waiter presented the check. Begin, accepting it, asked Harold if he wanted another drink-one for the road. Harold declined. Begin took note. Three martinis, par for the course. And Harold showed not one ill effect. This one might be a winner.

In short order, at the recommendation of Robert Begin, Harold was hired by the William J. Doran agency.

Harold was assigned to the bullpen. The bullpen was christened such by the copywriters who had occupied that position, paid their dues, and eventually escaped it.

It did not take Harold long to figure out that the bullpen separated the floaters from the self-motivators. Junior copywriters essentially were unassigned. The go-getters would find projects. The others would contemplate the ever-changing universe. There was no doubt that Harold intended to work-and to climb. But no one offered him a project, and he couldn’t find the rope.

So, in the beginning, Harold spent much more time looking for work than actually working. Timing his entrances carefully so it would not be apparent that he was, in effect, begging for work, he wandered from office to office, asking, “Anything I can help you with?”

That was how he got his first assignment. It was an “on pack.” One of the agency’s toothpaste accounts was offering a sample-size tube of toothpaste along with a small toothbrush. It was a travel package. All that was needed was filler body copy for the enclosed ad. Harold wrote the copy in about the time it would have taken to dash off a memo. He hadn’t invested all this preparation just to write filler copy.

But it was a learning experience.

One does not climb quickly by wandering about offering one’s services. The next most logical step was to seize the ball and run with it. He planned that step more carefully.

Weeks passed before he completed and introduced his next venture. He approached Fred Ruhman, an associate creative director in charge of the team that handled the Kingbrew account.

“Fred,” Harold began, “I had a hell of a lot of trouble getting to sleep last night. But just before I drifted off, I got this idea for a Kingbrew Beer presentation. The video possibilities knocked me cold.”

“No kidding. C’mon into my office and let’s talk about it.”

Once they were ensconced in Fred’s office, Ruhman gave a great performance as one who was politely interested in an underling’s idea, amateurish as it might be, and who would out of kindness hear the subordinate out.

Harold knew that, in reality, Ruhman was well up the creek with no paddle. The Kingbrew people expected a presentation for a major TV ad campaign in a couple of days. And Ruhman’s team hadn’t been able to get off the dime.

Ruhman listened patiently, showed little emotional response, and ended by thanking Harold and urging him to feel free to come in for a consultation anytime.

Harold did not have long to wait. Shortly after the meeting with the Kingbrew execs, word spread rapidly throughout the agency. It was a winner. Kingbrew bought the entire concept. They were thrilled with the presentation. Everything was coming up roses at the William J. Doran Agency. And it was all due to the fertile imagination of Fred Ruhman.

Fred Ruhman!

It was another learning experience.

There was no possible way Harold could claim credit for his pilfered concept! If push came to shove, it certainly would be Ruhman’s word against his. And Harold knew whose word would prevail. Although it would be a cold day in hell before Ruhman arrived at a similar campaign on his own.

Go for the jugular.

Harold plotted.

It took another several weeks-during which he wrote filler copy and found pretexts not to attend meetings, lunches, dinners, or have contact of any sort with Fred Ruhman-for him to perfect his next presentation.

This time he went above Ruhman’s level to the creative supervisor, namely, Bob Begin, who, it turned out, was more than willing to become Harold’s protector.

Begin listened to Harold’s presentation, his graphics plan, his proposal to combine live actors with animated cartoon characters, his imaginative use of International Motors vehicles. International Motors. Begin recalled their luncheon and that flicker of naked desire in Harold’s eyes at the mention of International Motors.

So, Harold was closing in on the quarry. Well, more power to him.

The presentation was good-no, superior. Better than anything the Doran Agency-or any other, for that matter-had done heretofore. If this proposal were given an appropriate setting, worthy of its intrinsic importance, International Motors would belong to Doran for the foreseeable future, if not forever. And Harold’s star would go into orbit.

Another, in Begin’s position, might have feared helping a subordinate to, in effect, leapfrog over himself. There was a natural tendency to keep subordinates subordinate and to use them as stepping stones on one’s own trip to the top.

Begin had a larger vision, which was not without an altruistic element.

On the one hand-the beau geste-he liked Harold, and wanted to see him succeed. But few people do anything for one reason alone. Thus, on the other, more self-interested, hand, Begin was inclined to hitch his wagon to Harold’s star.

Both Begin and May understood the path frequently taken toward, and to, the top in the ad industry. One tended to be wed to one’s clients. If one got a stranglehold on a most important client, one tended to rise in the company; if the client was deemed irreplaceable the ascendancy could be to the presidential suite. In the Doran Agency, International Motors was such an invaluable customer.

Begin knew that even with all his talent, experience, and expertise he personally would never hold a most important client such as International Motors in the palm of his hand. Whereas Harold just might. With his fertile imagination and singular specialized experience, it was conceivable that Harold one day might be able to demand a presidential position with the ultimatum that otherwise he would walk to the agency down the street, taking his International Motors with him. And at such time he might well be able to carry out such a threat. On that glorious day when Harold advanced into the presidential suite, he, Bob Begin, wanted to be at the winner’s side.

So Bob Begin put all his eggs in Harold May’s basket. It was risky, but, as Begin saw it, the odds favored the bet.

Thus, Begin pulled all the necessary strings and set up the presentation. William J. Doran himself sat in-though not without trepidation- that day. It was a double-header! Not only was Harold’s head on the block, so was Begin’s.

Success!

The collective noses of just about everyone below the level of creative supervisor were bent. Harold, in short order and with few stops in between, rose from the bullpen to the post of associate creative director on the strength of-what else-the International Motors account.

Harold was not yet “there.” But he was getting there.

He was being sought out. No longer was he the one who wandered the halls looking for something to do, searching for a break. Deferentially, people came to him. Nor was he standoffish. He treated others generously, even those who had treated him patronizingly during his apprenticeship in the bullpen.

Lunches-with his peers, superiors, clients-became elongated. Harold found that food was becoming less and less important. It didn’t really matter whether he had a salad, a meat, or a fish dish; all that counted was the quality of the martinis. He joked that lunch time was his attitude adjustment period of the day. He never ceased to be amused when in the company of anyone being exposed to hard liquor for the first time. The pinched face, the shudder, as if the neophyte were tasting poison. Harold had never experienced a single negative reaction to booze. From his very first drink, it had been as mother’s milk to him. Some were born to drink, others not, he concluded.

Years passed. Harold’s position in the agency grew ever more secure.

Everyone was given to know that, for all intents and purposes, the International Motors account was his baby. But his sphere of influence spread well beyond that single account no matter how important it was to the agency. He had been given several bonuses and merit increases. He was being openly touted as the next creative director, a position that would put him virtually a heartbeat away from the presidency.

But something was happening to Harold and his favorite pastime-lunch. It had to do with his “attitude adjustment” period. The triple martini no longer sufficed to adjust his attitude. He was developing an ever higher tolerance. It happened by gradations. Gradually, he became aware that the pleasurable floating feeling was eluding him. He missed the sensation, but would not admit, even to himself, that he felt desperate about the loss.

He had become celebrated for his daily luncheon procession of martinis. Two before solid food, one during the meal. He did not want to adjust his routine. He did not allow himself to reflect on the fact that he needed, really needed, more.

Initially, he solved his problem by having a martini alone in his office before going out to lunch. It worked for a while. Then he found that four wasn’t doing the trick. As far as he was concerned, this indicated nothing more than that his storied ability to hold his liquor had built up. The only obvious problem was how he could add enough booze to adjust his attitude without revealing this need to others. They would never understand.

The solution was easy enough. He heavily stocked the wet bar in his ample office, and instructed his secretary to schedule no appointments after 4:30 p.m. By that time he would have had enough to drink that he wouldn’t remember any business that he’d discussed.

Sobriety of sorts would return to Harold early in the evening. It was a state he learned to try to avoid. So he drank through the evening hours until he slipped into a dreamless, nonrefreshing sleep. He continued to get to work at approximately 9:00 in the mornings, but wasn’t able to accomplish much until near noon when he had his single preliminary-to-lunch martini. This preluncheon drink was always the first of Harold’s day; he convinced himself that as long as he didn’t drink any liquor before 11:30 a.m. he remained in control.

Of course his altered behavior became obvious to just about everyone in the agency. All the subterfuges he thought hid his nipping at the bottle couldn’t possibly do the trick. He became the subject of disrespectful jokes. Among the younger employees he became known as “42” because he visited the “21” restaurant twice a day.

Somehow, perhaps because he had organized his affairs so well before he tobogganed into what everyone else knew as his problem drinking, his work did not unduly suffer. During his increasingly rare clear-headed intervals, he was still able to be creative, sometimes brilliant. And, because he was still productive, his peers and superiors could wink at his self-destructive behavior, which, left unchecked, would probably one day be the cause of his downfall.

Ironically, many years later, a smashingly successful television ad campaign would be built around a pirate-eyed dog who would drink but always “remain in control.”

All were willing to look the other way except Bob Begin, his original guardian angel. Again, Bob’s motives were mixed. On the one hand, Harold’s present course very definitely was not leading to the presidency, which track Begin had been depending on for his own future security. On the other hand, a talented person was throwing his life away. For both reasons, Begin decided to get involved. It took every last ounce of emotional and psychic strength he possessed, but eventually he prevailed upon Harold to attend a few meetings of Alcoholics Anonymous.

At first, Harold resisted all efforts to get him to realistically assess his personal condition. He was willing to admit that AA was not all bad for those who needed it. He didn’t need it. He was still steadfast in his resolve not to drink before 11:30 in the morning.

Harold was blessed that Begin continued to urge him to be faithful to the meetings and that several members of that group were tenacious in their invitations to join them. Gradually-very deliberately-Harold began to see himself in the admissions of the others.

He learned that the natural ease with which he first adapted to liquor, far from indicating immunity from addiction, suggested an alcoholic tendency. The others’ repeated confessions of loss of control brought home to him the helpless feeling he habitually denied. Alcoholic after alcoholic admitted, “When I start drinking, I have no idea, I can’t predict, what the outcome might be.”

The final nail of self-revelation came when others confessed their dependency: “I need booze just like other people need food and water.”

The recovering alcoholics listened patiently as Harold pleaded his nonaddiction-since he was able to abstain until 11:30 every morning-although they scarcely could control their laughter at his naivete.

In time he became a full-fledged member of Alcoholics Anonymous. The easiest of the famous twelve steps for Harold was admitting the existence of a power greater than himself. If Harold believed in anything, he believed in God. Indeed, it was his belief in God that sustained him through the agony of withdrawal, in and out of the William J. Doran Advertising Agency, and led him into the Order of Cistercians of the Strict Observance, or Trappists.

He chose the Trappists for several reasons. He felt he needed plenty of penance, and the Trappists, at least when he first joined them, were rigorous: prayer and work and little else. The renowned Thomas Merton had just made the order popular if not illustrious. And entering the Trappists was an excellent way of disappearing into a community where, save Merton, there was little if any individuality. Harold was, among other things, trying to lose his notoriety.

However, it was not long after he had met “Father Louis” (Merton), and shortly after the famous priest’s weird death, that Harold decided he was destined to become the next Merton.

Meanwhile, back on Madison Avenue, the fate of Harold May was the subject of animated conversation and debate in advertising circles and over leisurely lunches until, after a reasonable interval, the advertising career of Harold May and its possibilities was laid to rest.

Raquiescat in pace.

Only in one person’s mind did the memory of Harold May not fade. Robert Begin never forgot Harold. Begin felt somewhat like the young Catholic woman engaged to a young agnostic man. She desperately wanted unity of religion in her marriage. To humor her, he took instructions in the Catholic faith-and was so influenced by them he became a priest.

Similarly, Begin had introduced Harold to Alcoholics Anonymous with the hope that the group could help him off the road to self-destruction and back on the path to the presidency with its perks for both of them. But, along the way, Begin lost Harold to God.

Harold-first Brother, then Father, Augustine-threw himself wholeheartedly into the religious life. He did well as a Trappist. That he was a gifted writer had been proven in his secular life, and his abbot knew it. So Augustine soon was assigned the duties of a scribe. He meticulously researched, then wrote treatises that were published in academic journals. Because they appeared in such scholarly publications, no one expected Augustine’s pieces to be so interestingly and imaginatively written. So, few readers recognized that he was several cuts above the ordinary.

In addition to this writing ability, Harold’s ease and skill in allocution in the monastery also were soon noted. That marked the beginning of Harold’s “outreach” assignment: to spend weekends outside the monastery helping in nearby parishes, thus creating a greater sense of presence and opportunity for recruitment for the order.

At first, Harold was reluctant to leave the monastery and its shelter from the world. After all, he hadn’t left the world only to return to it. Then he began to enjoy the camaraderie of the parish priests he met on these assignments.

Parish priests, in turn, generally enjoyed entertaining visiting priests, and did well in offering quality bed and board, especially board. While the visitor’s accommodations might be spartan-frequently an afterthought in the rectory’s architecture-food and drink were usually topflight.

Harold was to learn that he hadn’t learned much. He’d never bought the AA maxim, “Once an alcoholic, always an alcoholic.” He held himself to a couple of drinks before dinner on Saturday parish assignments, but it was extremely difficult.

After evening confessions, he drank himself into oblivion. If Sunday morning duties had not been so strictly routine, he would never have been able to carry them off. After his final Mass on Sunday, he would demonstrate once again that AA saying, “One is too many and a thousand are not enough.”

This led to quite a few altercations with Massachusetts Highway Police except on those Sunday afternoons and evenings when he was lucky enough to get back to the monastery safely without encountering the law. In all his run-ins with road cops, one thing and one thing only saved him from a ticket, the drunk tank, a trial, probation, or imprisonment: He was a priest-and police were notoriously slow to ticket the clergy.

Then came the book.

The plot came to him in dribs and drabs, mostly during private prayer. At first, he thought he was undergoing a chronic failure in his prayer life: distractions. He confessed them as such-until he was able to see the gold at the end of the rainbow.

It was a believable plot, with three-dimensional characters, complete with a surprise ending. Conscientiously, he brought his new project to the abbot, who at first was cool to the notion of a contemplative dabbling at a mystery novel. But, persevering, Augustine finally convinced Father Abbot of the good that could accrue to the order, and the potential added income for the monastery.

The book was written in what was-if anyone kept statistics on how long it took to write a novel in a monastic setting-probably record time. Everyone in the monastery was impressed, especially when it was accepted for publication on the very first submission.

There was an author’s tour, agreed to most reluctantly by the abbot- “Ad majorem Ordinis gloriam” (“for the greater glory of the Order”-and the monastery). At least Augustine thought there had been a tour. Being outside the monastery with liquor readily available, he largely lost those weeks to memory. Augustine himself would have been literally lost had he been on his own. Fortunately for all, his publisher had arranged for a driver in each city, who shepherded him from one interview to the next.

Augustine was assured that in most of these interviews he had performed admirably. That he had to take on faith. Most of the time, he was deeply, gravely under the influence.

But never before 11:30 in the morning.

It was after returning to his monastic routine and enforced sobriety that the first invitation from Klaus Krieg came to join P.G. Press. And then a second and a third. Each offering something more than the previous offer.

Then came Augustine’s conversation with his former colleague at the agency, and his conversation with his abbot. There followed Augustine’ final rejection of any possible offer Krieg might make.

At least Augustine considered his rejection final.

It was not long ago-Augustine would never forget the day-when Krieg visited the monastery and made a proposition he felt sure could not be rejected.

In a former day, Krieg would have experienced great difficulty getting permission to visit one of the monks. With the strict rules regarding silence and cloister, Augustine might have been well beyond Krieg’s ability to reach. Now, with more relaxed rules, it was relatively easy for the two to meet. It was made even easier since Augustine did not object to Krieg’s request for a meeting. Augustine began to regret that decision as soon as Krieg started spelling out the terms of what was actually an ultimatum.

Quite simply, Krieg knew all there was to know about Augustine’s drinking problem. From his college days-when no one seemed to sense any problem at all-to the ad agency, to AA, to the weekends away from the monastery, to the book tour-Krieg knew it all. And, quite simply, everyone would know it all unless Augustine signed with P.G. Press.

Augustine was not stupid. He knew immediately what such a revelation would do to his present and future life. There was the distinct possibility that he might be expelled from his treasured monastic life. But even if not, his freedom to go and come, the weekend respites he so enjoyed, all would come to an end. Perhaps the greatest blow, his dream of becoming the second Merton would disintegrate into a nightmare. The most dissolute sinner could become a saint by, at some point, reforming his life and turning to virtue. As was the case with-among many-the original Saint Augustine. Indeed, Merton had sown his wild oats before becoming the saintly monk. The reverse procedure was not allowed. Father Augustine, outside of drinking, had sown few wild oats. The drinking, however, qualified as vice enough.

Now he was supposed to be beyond vice and embarked on a life of unmitigated virtue. It just wouldn’t work. Exposure of his past-and especially his present-drinking bouts would send crashing every hope he had.

A dilemma! But one that was not immediately pressed by Krieg. He left the monastery that day without exacting a commitment from Augustine. The ultimatum was there, without doubt. But it was not dated. Krieg had given Augustine time to stew and fret. Augustine was unsure if it was not kinder to a condemned man to just take him out and shoot him rather than keeping him on death row for an unspecified time.

Then the invitation came to participate in this writers’ seminar at Marygrove. Immediately he saw Krieg’s name and the description of his role in the workshop, Augustine recognized that this was not an invitation. It was a summons. A summons he could not refuse to an offer he could see no way to refuse.

In the weeks between the mandatory acceptance of this invitation and the start of the workshop, Augustine thought of little else but his position between a rock and a hard place.

In Augustine’s mind, this was a desperate problem. Reluctantly, he concluded that any possible solution would require desperate means. For the very first time in his life he was forced to consider the ultimate act of violence. He surprised himself with how naturally, logically, and practically he was able to consider doing great harm to another person. Was it the compelling predicament in which he found himself? Was it his new familiarity with the murder mystery genre? Was it the gross evilness of Klaus Krieg?

Slowly, Augustine came to believe that the world would be better without this impostor, this gross creature who debased the nature of religion.

Gradually, Augustine began to form a plan. The methodology was not far different from the way he had formed the plot for his novel: distractions during prayer-in both instances most practical distractions. It was a simple plan, based mainly on a few traits and habits he’d noticed in Krieg during their visit together.

By the time he arrived in Michigan for the workshop, Augustine’s plan had been refined to the utmost degree. His only question was whether he possessed-what was it: sufficient courage or malevolence? — to pull it off. For reinforcement, he brought with him some liquor. He fully expected that to carry out his plan, he would need a gigantic “attitude adjustment.”

Then came interference from that foolish David Benbow.

Just after his arrival at Marygrove, Augustine found a cryptic note slipped beneath his door. It was from Benbow. It contained a subtle suggestion that it would be beneficial to meet. The wording of the note was veiled. If one did not know what Klaus Krieg was up to, it would have been impossible to make any sense of the communication. However-and this was the single touch of brilliance to the note-if one knew what was on Krieg’s mind, the message was clear enough.

Thus, Augustine, whose signature on a book contract Krieg coveted, was able to recognize that Benbow was in the same fix. And from the wording, that, perhaps, so were the rabbi and the nun. In any case, if Winer and Marie were not among Krieg’s coveted few, the note would be harmless if unintelligible gobbledygook.

Absently, Augustine wondered whether Winer or Marie would rendezvous with Benbow. It didn’t much matter to Augustine. Benbow, as far as Augustine was concerned, was a fool. Conspiracies were like planned obsolescence. They had moving parts and so were destined to break down. It was better to work alone. But then he thought wryly that if anyone besides himself was out to stop Krieg, so much the better. It didn’t matter who stopped Krieg as long as Krieg was stopped.

Ah, but that was as of Sunday.

Monday evening, last night, saw the tragic death of Rabbi Winer. Now things had changed. It was a good thing, thought Augustine, that he had come prepared with more than one plan. There was more than one way to skin a cat. And more than one way to make sure that, like the third monkey, Krieg spoke no evil.